The Good, the Bad, and the Emus(85)

The specimens were neatly labeled and arranged in alphabetical order, from amazonite through vivianite. A line of smaller type beneath each mineral’s name gave the location where it was found—the amethyst in Amherst County, Virginia, the turquoise in Campbell County, Virginia, apophyllite in Fairfax, spessartite garnets in Amelia. All towns and counties in Virginia. I was disappointed to find that kyanite, Rose Noire’s new fascination, was not represented.

Or had it been? There wasn’t a blank space between hematite (Alleghany County, Virginia) and pectolite (Mitchells, Virginia), but the specimens on that shelf were spaced a little farther apart.

And there were marks in the dust that seemed to indicate that something had been removed, and the hematite, pectolite, and the other specimens on that shelf spaced out a little more to conceal the absence. Not a lot of dust—clearly whoever cleaned Mr. Weaver’s house did a good job on the shelves. But enough to see that something had been moved. Recently. Very recently.

It might have nothing to do with Weaver’s murder, but you never knew. I took a few pictures of the mineral collection, from a distance and close up, showing the dust marks. And then some pictures of the office itself. I wasn’t sure why. Maybe in case the device in the hallway wasn’t the only booby trap the killer had left. Then I left the office without disturbing anything else and walked carefully around Mr. Weaver and the kerosene. I took a few pictures of him, just in case. Then I escaped onto the fresh air of the front porch.

I walked down the front steps, taking deep breaths to clear the smell of kerosene from my lungs. I felt slightly dizzy, and perhaps a little nauseated. Should I ask Dad about the possible side effects of inhaling kerosene fumes? Or would that only make me feel worse?

Focus. I wasn’t urgently in need of Dad’s services. First, I needed to call for help. Preferably without leaving the crime scene unguarded.

I had a sudden inspiration. I fished in my pocket for my car keys, aimed the remote at the Twinmobile, and pressed the button that set off the alarm.

My car began honking furiously. Surely they’d hear it over in Camp Emu. I strolled to the edge of Miss Annabel’s fence, where I could keep an eye on Mr. Weaver’s front door while watching for anyone who came to check on my car.

Sure enough, a few minutes later several people came loping through Miss Annabel’s yard. Rob and two other men from Blake’s Brigade.

“See, I told you that was Meg’s car,” Rob was shouting. “Meg! Where are you? Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” I called out. “But Mr. Weaver isn’t. Someone attacked him.”

“Want me to fetch Dad?” Rob asked.

“He’s past that,” I said. “Can someone go to town to get the police?”

“Police?” Rob echoed. “He’s dead?”

“We should call 9-1-1!” one of the other men exclaimed.

All three of them pulled out their cell phones. I waited patiently until they’d all three figured out that no, the cell phone towers hadn’t miraculously started working again. Then I assigned one of the brigade guys to run back to camp to get his car and drive to town for the police. I assigned the other to watch the back of Mr. Weaver’s house from outside the fence. Rob and I stayed in front to keep an eye on his door.

As soon as the two men had raced back through Annabel’s yard, I saw her door open a crack.

“You keep an eye on the front door,” I told Rob. “I’m going to let Miss Annabel know what’s going on.”





Chapter 23



“Meg, what’s wrong?”

Annabel opened the door as soon as I stepped onto the porch. I had to shade my eyes with my hand against the glare of the little LED headlight she was wearing on her head.

“Sorry,” she added. She pivoted the headlight so it shone up rather than into my eyes and stepped back so I could enter.

“No problem,” I said. “And sorry about the noise. One of those guys who came running through your yard just now to check on me will be driving into town to get the police. It looks as if your next-door neighbor has been murdered.”

“Weaver? Murdered?”

She didn’t look happy. I suppose that should have been a relief. But as she absorbed the news, her expression changed from surprise to dismay.

“Damn,” she said. “Just damn. Contrary to the conclusion Chief Heedles will probably jump to, I didn’t want Weaver dead. I just wanted him punished for what he did. Properly, legally punished. And for your information I’m on record as a staunch opponent of the death penalty.”

“If it makes you feel any better, I don’t see you as a prime suspect for this,” I said.